Sunday, 12 November 2017



Sleep, Sire…I am a pillow

for you,

satin sheets,


and smooth as waters,

undisturbed by the breeze,

yet wild

of heart, like a nightingale, released from her bonds,


all spread,

sleep, great king, my body

is a bed, for you,

and it longs

for your weight; pushing, swaying,

to undulate,

battles and campaigns are for

day-break, for when we have sun,

not these stars;


let my fingers caress your scars and ease

the aches

in your bones,

my lips are a silken cloth,

draped in your lap,


and wholly exposed,

my hair, is gold cords,
at your hips,

my tongue a tender,

revering kiss, that brings its own

precious gift;

a great concerto that grows and lifts into heavenly,  

angel-song, the kind of worship that can never

be wrong;

in holy light,

I kneel

at your feet –


sleep, bold sir,

sleep, my hands in your hair, a crown,


lay your hunger

down and a feast I will set

for your pleasure,

no silver to count

nor payment to measure, close your eyes,

and fall into


sleep, as I pay homage;


I came only to serve you, tonight.

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